Strange Fantasy
by IrrelevantLogic
Summary: Repulsive and attractive. Impossible. But she wondered, oh, how she wondered...


To be perfectly honest, after the initial relief, there was a feeling of…disappointment.

It wasn't that he didn't want her, and that made her feel undesirable—because she was pretty sure the reason he had taken her away from her family was because she was the thing they would miss the most, which meant she was pretty damn desirable.

It was more that…

…well…

She'd had nightmares, there in the beginning, about him creeping into her room and doing unspeakable things.

Yes, definitely nightmares. She'd woken up sweating, terrified, enraged—clawing at the bedclothes, trying to fight back, to fight him off.

But after a while, the dreams became different. Oh, they were about the same things, but she began to view them with detachment and uncertainty.

And, sometimes, strange arousal.

Excitement.

She still dreamed about how his cold, clammy fingers would feel against her skin, how his sharp nails would dig in deep and leave long scores in her flesh. She still dreamed about feeling his hideous breath in her ear, against her neck, feeling his reptilian lips caressing her and his horrible hands stroking her body.

And it interested her more than the thought of any ordinary man ever had. Gaston had kissed her and touched her and held her, and she felt—well—bored. She had imagined that it would be wonderful, but it was just kissing, just touching, just holding, nothing special or meaningful.

But _him_ …

So she asked.

"Why am I here?"

"To keep my house clean, of course, dearie," he responded.

"And I'm not—you don't want—anything else?" Her voice trembled, but she was only a little afraid. No, she _was_ afraid…but…

"Like what, dearie?"

"Like…what men often want women for."

"I'm not _interested_ in you, if that's what you're worried about. No, you can sleep easy, I won't _attack_!"

So she was relieved. And disappointed. And…what?

 _Curious_.

She just wanted to _know_ , that's what she told herself. What _would_ he feel like? His skin, his hands, his repulsive teeth. His hair, the way it stuck straight out—would it be greasy to the touch? If she let her hand rest on him, would he close those horrible eyes? Would he giggle, that shrieking, almost childish giggle, that, like the cry of a banshee meant death, meant destruction to all who heard it? What sort of hellish cries would come from him if…during…

 _Could_ he, even?

He was shaped like a man. Was he…? Could he…? Did he even have…?

She touched him, once, as if by accident—just his hand. He was warm. Rough, and strange, but warm. And he wasn't clammy or damp at all, but surprisingly dry, like a snake.

Was he warm all over?

Completely repulsive. His body, his face, his aspect, his movement. Repulsive and attractive at once.

Impossible. No.

 _Yes_.

Her dreams grew longer, and sometimes she didn't want to wake up. When she inevitably _did_ wake up, she would close her eyes tight and try to imagine what would have happened if the dream had gone on.

He had been touching her, his skin scaly but warm—tracing his fingers down the side of her neck, slipping under the edge of her dress. His cracked and stained teeth were close to her face, and his breath was hot against her throat. Then their bodies pressed together and she felt the space between her legs getting wet and she grew hotter and hotter until…

Sometimes, in the dream, she melted, totally and utterly satisfied, and all he had to do was touch her. Sometimes he had her trapped, was forcing himself on her, but she cried out in her sleep for more…

"Heard you screaming last night," he said casually one day, as he pored over some deal or other he was crafting and she dusted.

She nearly dropped her duster. The night before she had dreamed that he had his tongue in her, and that he could make it long and thin and rough, like a snake's or a lizard's.

"Another nightmare, dearie?" he asked, grinning maliciously.

"Nightmare," she said. "This place does lend itself to them."

But after that, whenever he flicked his tongue, or ate anything, or laughed, she felt searing heat in the bottom of her stomach.

He was disgusting. But she had long since ceased to be disgusted and became fascinated.

And when she fell in love with him, it became worse.


End file.
